


Chrysanthemums

by Adarog (RembrandtsWife)



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-03
Updated: 2007-11-03
Packaged: 2017-10-13 21:02:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RembrandtsWife/pseuds/Adarog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He always brings flowers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chrysanthemums

**Author's Note:**

  * For [antennapedia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/antennapedia/gifts).



> Written for the Forty or Better ficathon celebrating mature characters, on Livejournal. Many thanks to [](http://kivrin.livejournal.com/profile)[**kivrin**](http://kivrin.livejournal.com/) for encouragement and beta!

He showed up with flowers again. He was always prompt, and he always brought flowers. Today they were chrysanthemums, autumn flowers in autumn colors, crimson, bronze, and gold, interspersed with eucalyptus. She loved eucalyptus, its fresh, exotic scent. Smiling, she took the bouquet from her lover's hand and instinctively raised it to her face and inhaled deeply. He smiled back, the sweetness of it a surprise in his normally somber face.

"Hello, Joyce."

"Hello, Rupert."

Belatedly, Joyce realized she should stop staring at him and invite him in. She stepped back, flowers still in one hand. "Come in."

As soon as the door was shut behind him, Rupert seized her face in his hands and kissed her. Oh, thank God. Heedless of the flowers, Joyce stepped in close and wrapped both arms around him, reveling in the smell of bay rum on his neck, the taste of mint in his mouth, the warmth of his hands on her skin. It had been too long.

Rupert tipped his head, resting his forehead against her own. "Hi," he said, smiling foolishly. Grinning, really. Joyce knew she was grinning, too, like a besotted teenager.

"Hi."

She'd had to wait till Buffy left with Hank to make her preparations. Hank had been late, as usual, but she'd made an extra effort during the week to tidy up the house and planned something easy and quick for lunch: quiche and a salad. The flowers went into a red glass vase and into the center of the table, already set for two. They glowed against the deep gold tablecloth.

"Shall I pour the wine?" he asked, in that shy tone that seemed habitual with him.

"Please," she said, smiling, and began to cut the first quiche into slices.

Rupert always enjoyed her cooking. She wasn't a bad cook, but she wasn't exactly inspired, either; yet he relished everything, from the color of the tablecloth to the sauteed mushrooms in the quiche to the cheap chardonnay. Most of all he seemed to relish seeing her; his eyes rarely left her face as they talked, small talk, idle chatter to cover the fact that they could hardly wait to dispense with lunch and get to bed.

Sometimes, when they hadn't been able to get together for a few weeks, Joyce felt like a fool, or worse. A woman her age, so greedy for sex--it was disgusting, wasn't it? But there was nothing disgusting about this need to touch and be touched, to get close enough to another person to smell them and taste them, to give pleasure and accept it. Giving him the pleasures of food and wine, receiving the pleasure of the flowers, that was part of it, too. It wasn't just the sex. But Lord, how she wanted him naked.

"That was delicious, Joyce." He polished his mouth with the napkin, and so she always thought of it--Rupert Giles didn't just wipe his mouth, he polished it. He helped her carry the dishes to the kitchen and loaded them into the dishwasher after she scraped them. He always did that, without comment. She'd thanked him once and he'd stammered, blushing. He took it for granted that he should help her.

Joyce dried her hands on the towel and turned to Rupert. She started to say something, and then he was kissing her again, his breath buttery from the chardonnay, his hands hard on her waist, and there was nothing to do but run, like teenagers, to the bedroom.

But they weren't teenagers any more. Never had been, really, though that damned candy had made them think so. As she took off her earrings and put them neatly on the dresser, Joyce thought of the night Rupert--no, *Ripper*--had taken her on the hood of a police car, after knocking cold the police officer with a single punch. It had been exciting, wildly exciting, and she'd never forget it. But it wasn't going to happen like that any more, and that was okay. More than okay.

"Need a hand?" Rupert's arms came around her, cupped her breasts teasingly, and then crept to the buttons of her blouse. She laughed at him over her shoulder.

"That's two hands. Are you undressed already?"

He was, at least down to his boxers. She'd never known a man who could undress and dress as quickly as Rupert Giles. He was good with women's clothes, too; her blouse seemed to melt apart under his fingers just as she melted under his touch, his nibbling on her neck and shoulders. He pulled the blouse down her arms without losing contact with her skin, then unhooked her bra with one quick jerk and slid it forward. She sighed as his hands covered her where the tight fabric had been.

His thumbs stroked the sides of her breasts, imprinted by the elastic. Her nipples hardened against his palm, and she whimpered, struggling with the side zipper of her skirt. Rupert dropped one hand, and the button slipped open, the zipper whispered down. He followed her as she stepped out of it and tugged at her peach-colored half-slip.

Joyce turned around and shimmied out of the slip, presenting Rupert with bare tits and her expensive pantyhose. He seemed to have a fetish for pantyhose, for the really silky stuff over her skin, so she'd been indulging in some things out of a catalogue. There were some other catalogues she might start buying from, too, the kind that didn't sell clothes. She had a feeling Rupert would be... intrigued.

Rupert, at the moment, was cupping her breasts and teasing them with his thumbs, round and round the aureoles. They crinkled up beneath his touch, the whole breast firming as he fondled. Not that they would ever be as firm and perky as a girl's again (like her daughter's, like Willow's), but Rupert didn't seem to mind. He treated her to a delicious suck on one tit, a perfect, careful pinch on the other, before sinking to his knees and rubbing his face against her belly.

  
He still had his glasses on. Silly man. "Give me those," she said, tapping the rims. He slipped them off, his mouth quirking up ruefully, and handed them to her. Joyce put them on the dresser behind her and curled her fingers around the back of Rupert's head to draw him close again.

She liked the feeling of it, his nose and lips caressing her belly through the pantyhose. His hair curled softly around her fingers; his skin had the fine-grained smoothness a man's skin has when he has just shaved. He always came to her freshly shaven, smelling of bay rum and vetiver soap and mint on his breath, clean and ready for her. He kissed her belly, the tops of her thighs, her mound, her thighs again. Her legs started quaking. She wondered if he'd like her in stockings with a garter belt. And no panties....

Joyce heard herself moan softly as Rupert began peeling down the panty and kissing her bare flesh. Her skin tingled where he'd kissed her through the fabric; now it sang where his lips touched again, soft and hungry. His big hands splayed across her bottom and squeezed; his mouth drifted lower, and the pantyhose slipped down her legs, puddling around her ankles. For a moment she felt like an idiot, standing there naked with her pantyhose fallen over her pumps. Then Rupert's tongue darted forward and flicked over her clit, and she swayed right out of her shoes.

"God, you're good," she muttered, sprawling on the bed. Rupert shed his boxers and joined her.

"You inspire me," he said, bending to kiss her. Coming from another man, that would have sounded smarmy or smug; from Rupert, it just sounded sincere.

Joyce turned toward him, into the kiss, and got her arms around his neck, her leg between his thighs. He wound his fingers into her hair, something she had always hated from other men, and petted her breasts with his other hand, still kissing. She reached down and stroked his cock, nestled against her stomach. Rupert purred into her mouth and thrust lazily into her hand. When she pushed at him, he rolled onto his back and let her have her way with him. She draped her body over his and kissed his chest, licked at his nipples, stroked his cock and eased back the foreskin the way he had taught her. She'd had to pass forty before she'd even seen an uncircumcised man. Rupert moaned softly. He was never loud in bed; he was, however, good with words. She slithered down his body and took the slick head of his prick into her mouth, and he moaned her name, "Oh, Joyce... oh, that beautiful mouth...."

Sucking, and licking, and fondling his balls, and kissing the insides of his thighs, until suddenly he pulled away, sitting up, and got her across his lap and kissed her again, his hot tongue relentless inside her mouth. She felt so wet she must be dripping onto the bedspread, and he hadn't touched her there but once. Now it was her turn to lie on her back with his weight on top of her, his mouth on her breasts, his soft rough voice telling her she was beautiful, such beautiful tits, nipples so tight in his mouth, so sweet, and kissing his way down across her stomach, across the stretch marks, the little jiggle of her gut without the control top hose or the tummy firmer panties, and lower still, as she spread her legs shamelessly, panting like a steam engine, until he was licking her pussy in steady, thirsty strokes and her whole body was shaking.

God, you're good, she thought, but there was no way she could speak.

Rupert stretched out beside her, cupping his hand over her mound. Her insides twitched hopefully. He leaned close, slowly, and touched his mouth to hers. His lips were slick, his skin redolent of her juices now instead of aftershave. It smelled good on him, that salty milky odor, that stickiness on his lips. Daring, Joyce opened her mouth and let him kiss her deeply and tasted her pussy in the kiss. He licked his lips after and kissed her breasts, leaving small damp prints.

"Nectar of the gods," he murmured. "Milk and honey under the tongue. Want some more." He slipped one finger inside her, so smooth, brought it out shining wet, and licked it clean. "Mm, yes." And slipped that finger in again, and offered it to her, glistening, fragrant. Watching his face, Joyce licked her juice from Rupert's finger, licked and sucked. He moaned softly and pressed two fingers up, going deep, making her spread her legs again and lift her hips to take him in.

"You want this." His fingers curled inside her, knowing, gentle. He knew women's bodies. He knew how to approach, how to touch and watch for a response.

"Yes."

"You want to be fucked." His fingers slipped out, pressed in.

"Uh-huh." His eyes were green, seen up close, with a patch of light brown in the left iris.

"Tell me, sweetheart." His thumb pressed firmly on her clit, and her breath caught.

"Fuck me, Rupert. Please."

She never used to use naughty words in bed. She'd never let a lover kiss her with his mouth all wet from her cunt. She'd never had a lover who wanted to kiss her then, or who wanted to fuck her like this with his fingers, with a beat that was sharper and faster than was possible with his cock. She'd just about died that night when Ripper got his fingers in there, it had felt so good. Maybe she'd never really had a lover, only boyfriends, and then a husband, and then an ex-husband and dull, unimaginative dates who were often far too much like her ex-husband. She'd never arched up beneath a man's touch, crying his name, begging him please, please, and she wasn't sure if she was begging him to stop now or never to stop.

When he did stop, she lay still, panting. A fine sheen of sweat had broken out over her body. She could feel the beads of it in her scalp, soaking her hair, and did not care. Rupert was looking at her from her belly with a look at once smug and tender, happy for her, pleased with himself. He liked to see her like this. It amazed her that she wanted to be seen--like this, without decoration.

Presently she sat up, folding onto her knees with a little groan. Rupert lay back, watching her from under his lashes, spreading out his arms over the pillows. He was at her disposal, and there were so many thing she wanted to do with him. She wanted to put her hands on Rupert's chest and lean on him while she kissed him, putting her tongue into his mouth. She wanted to brush her fingers through the hair on his chest and play with his nipples until they stiffened up like her own. She wanted to pet his belly with its little bulge and tease it with her fingernails until he was pushing his hips up, his cock begging for her touch. She wanted to bend down and flick her tongue over the insides of his thighs before taking the head of his prick in her mouth and weighing his fat heavy balls in her hand.

Joyce did all those things and Rupert let her, even encouraged her with little wordless murmurs, until his eyes were glazed over and his chest heaving fast and shallow, as hers had been. She leaned over to the nightstand, retrieved the condom, and handed it to him almost solemnly. He slipped it on easily and retrieved the lube from the nightstand nearest him, capping the condom with a little dab. She'd been embarrassed about proposing they use it, but no matter how much she enjoyed sex, she didn't get as wet as she used to, and intercourse was easier, better with a little more slick. He'd simply nodded the first time she offered it and used it without asking now. And there were other uses for lube, as well....

He reached for her hips as she straddled him. His prick slid in easily, and she threw back her head, feeling the arch of her spine become an extension of that hard curve within her. Rupert's hands glided up from her hips to her breasts, over her shoulders and down her arms, across her belly and around to her bottom, in a flowing rhythm that matched the way she moved on him, backward and forward. He was still watching her, and she didn't care. Dancing with him like this, his body part of hers, his gaze as caressing as his touch, she didn't care about the stretch marks, about the scars, about the sags. She didn't even think of them. The fire inside was too sweet to be denied with regrets or reservations. She raised her arms and gathered up her hair away from her face; he cupped her breasts and teased the nipples with his thumbs.

"Oh, Rupert...."

Her hips and knees were getting a little tired, so she swung off of him and settled onto her back. Rupert knelt between her thighs and gathered her close, sliding in again but not too deep. Instead he splayed one hand across her belly and nudged her clit with his thumb.

Joyce whimpered as her muscles rippled around him. "Can feel you squeezing my prick," Rupert said, and pressed hard with his thumb. "Oh yeah, I can feel you--"

Neither of them could take much of that. Joyce wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs around his hips, as he moved onto her, pushing deeper. "Yeah, that's where I want you," she crooned, "right there, want you to fuck me, yeah, just like that--"

They strained together, harder, faster, more desperate, closer, closer, until they were fused for a moment in one mutual wave of bliss. Joyce had the fleeting thought that she never wanted to let go of this man, his cock, never wanted to let him out of her body or her life. Her pleasure peaked and ebbed just before his, and she held Rupert as he finished, gasping incoherently against her breasts. He sank down onto her, his muscles soft, his breath slowing, and she stroked his hair and wished, again, that she didn't have to let go.

They had time to cuddle, afterward. Rupert was comfortable about that. Occasionally, like today, he had a cigarette, just one, and Joyce was comfortable about that. They didn't talk. As Rupert dressed, Joyce put on her robe and opened the bedroom window to air it, then went to the bathroom to freshen up.

He kissed her good-bye but didn't say anything. He never said anything. They didn't set up their next rendezvous; there was no predicting when Buffy would be away long enough. Joyce closed the door and sat down on the couch, feeling the comfortable ache in her belly and the uncomfortable one in her heart.

It was well after dark before Buffy got home, of course. Joyce had left the lights on in the dining room, and Buffy stopped to bend and sniff the eucalyptus amidst the chrysanthemums.

"Nice flowers, Mom. You should get them more often."

"Yes, I should."

* * *

The assignment as given:  
 _Request 2 (wildcard--any fandom)  
Fandom: BtVS  
Character or pairing: Giles/Joyce  
What do we need to know about this pairing?: m/f, existed briefly in canon  
Three things you want: a new experience for at least one of them, joyous liberation, season 4 setting  
Two things you don't want: Ripper as multiple personality, Buffy_


End file.
